Red Wedding
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: A morning suit really isn't Clint Barton's style, but at least he's not the only one crashing the wedding. Mission fic.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: And now for something truly tropey and old-fashioned... An unedited version for this was written for the **be-compromised** Valentine's Day promptathon, to a prompt from **kiss_me_cassie,** _"Mission: Wedding"._ I like the idea of Clint and Natasha having met at some point _before_ he made that "different call," so I grabbed the opportunity to write that. Thanks, Cassie!

The timeline is about 5 years after Clint joined S.H.I.E.L.D. (which based on the badge we saw on the Avengers DVD was 1999) – so around the time when Tony Stark was still merrily selling weapons around the planet, and just after the Sokovian civil war.

As a devoted Clint-Natasha shipper I see this story as AoU non-compliant, but if you'd rather it was, you can make it so if you squint. A mild warning for domestic violence (movie-level, nothing graphic).

* * *

 **Red Wedding**

 **By**

 **Alpha Flyer**

* * *

I.

"You can _not_ be serious."

Clint stares at Coulson as if his handler had finally decided to appear in public without a tie.

"I've carried out ops in Iraqi jails, on a pig farm in Oklahoma, and in the men's toilet in the Capitol. I've put on a dress for that carnival thing in Cologne, and almost lost my manhood to a herd of piranhas in the Amazon. Honestly, you'd think I've passed your fucking _tests_ by now. So what's this?"

Coulson eyes him coolly.

"This isn't a test, Agent Barton. You've been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for five years; I'm not quite sure how, but you passed probation a long time ago. No, this is a _mission_ , and a very important one, too. The economies of several Central European nations depend on a successful outcome."

Clint isn't buying.

"How important can it be, if it involves me wearing a monkey suit, a circus hat and a garden salad?"

Coulson folds the outfit S.H.I.E.L.D.'s wardrobe department has produced neatly and tidily into a suitcase. When he speaks, it's pretty obvious that his patience is beginning to wear thin.

"This is a morning coat, a classical top hat and a _boutonnière_ , Agent Barton, standard dress for a wedding. Wardrobe has your measurements, so unless you've been into the pizza again, you will look just fine. You may even find the man of your dreams."

Clint sighs heavily, and shoots the grey hat and striped pants another venomous look.

"Why do people think that getting hitched means you have to turn yourself into a chinless Victorian aristocrat?"

Coulson ignores him entirely this time; instead, he puts on his briefing voice.

"Dardan Jashari is the head of the Sokovian mafia, as corrupt as he is violent. He got very rich from the most recent civil war, supplying weapons to both sides, as well as diverting aid convoys and selling the food on the black market. His wedding to Jelena Novakoff would, through her father, give him access into the innermost circles of the Sokovian government. The marriage is being spun as a gesture of reconciliation, but it will almost certainly lead to the long-term destabilization of the country, and possibly the entire region."

Clint looks at the picture Coulson is holding out. Typical uni-browed thug, late thirties, with a look that suggests his interest in the Sokovian secession wars was more than purely financial. Probably just one war crime (or a few bribes) short of an indictment in The Hague. Why anyone would want to marry a specimen like that is beyond Clint, but then again, his mother married his father so who's he to judge.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has been after Jashari for some time, but he's very good at hiding. The wedding will be the first opportunity for us – you – to find him at a fixed time and place. Your invitation is in your suit jacket; you're a representative of Stark Industries."

Clint nods and makes to grab the suit, but Coulson isn't done.

"There is another asset rumoured to be attending the wedding. We don't know who he's working for, or who his mark is; it may be Jashari. But the invite list is rife with potential targets, the war hasn't been over that long, and Sokovians are very good at holding grudges. If he should kill Jashari before you get to him, fine. The Council wants a success. We don't really care how the guy dies, as long as he does."

Clint interest is piqued in ways that Balkan politics could never hope to achieve.

"Competition? Cool. Maybe I'll learn something."

Coulson rolls his eyes.

"Just remember you can't bring a bow and arrow to a wedding, so be creative. Dismissed."

…..

II.

Weddings are occasion Natasha both likes and loathes. On one hand, they're easy to slip into, because who's to say _no_ to an attractive, unknown guest who plausibly belongs to the 'other side' of the wedding? On the other hand…

She is not called the 'Black Widow' for nothing.

She shakes off the unwanted memories, and focuses on the now. This one is child's play – too many guests for anyone to know everyone, with invitations based on debts, advantage and prestige, not personal connections. Natasha remembers a royal wedding she attended in Doha, in which the thousand or so guests - on the female side of the wedding - were provided with tickets, not personal invitations. As long as the numbers were suitably impressive, no one seemed to care who was there.

This one, too, seems to be geared towards quantity over quality – several hundred people crowding into the chandelier-lit ballroom of the local castle, whose meter-thick walls had survived the civil war better than any of the more recent buildings.

She smiles coquettishly at the token security thugs at the entrance, who are frisking only the men for guns (although some of them look like they'd love to get their hands on the bodice of her flouncy cocktail dress). Waving the invitation she'd taken off some clueless guest in the parking lot, she wafts past them to air-kiss a surprised elderly woman.

"So nice to see you again," Natasha gushes in flawless Sokovian. "I was hoping you'd be here. I saw you from the back in the church. Wasn't the ceremony just _gorgeous_? I was _so_ touched. We must catch up after dinner, promise?"

The old woman, clearly not used to such attention, allows pleasure to win out over confusion.

"Certainly, my dear," she says with a smile. "You are one of Jelena's friends, aren't you? You may need to remind me of your name. I'm getting old, you know, and my memory isn't the best."

Natasha trills a little laugh.

"But of course I will," she nods. "I'm starting to have those moments myself. See you later, then!"

She repeats the performance with a couple of other guests, certain of the number of eyes following her into the room. Having thus established her credentials, she walks past the bridal dais to assess placements and angles, more out of habit than because she plans to carry out her commission so publicly. The after-dinner dance will offer far more subtle opportunities, and her employer values results over visibility.

The outer tables don't have name cards; she finds a seat with relatively clear sight lines and settles down with a glass of water.

It doesn't take long before someone else sits down beside her. The man is alone; if he's looking for a date, she'll be happy to oblige. Let everyone else assume they're a couple _._ She inclines her head in greeting, and takes his measure through lowered lids.

Reasonably attractive, athletic, unassuming height, spiky dirt-blond hair. His strangely coloured eyes widen a little as they take in her cleavage. Het, then. His morning suit is cut to perfection, although he shrugs frequently, as if his broad shoulders are unused to formal wear, or even a suit. There are interesting calluses on his fingers.

Manual labourer, Natasha has just concluded, when his eyes slide off her breasts and focus on the entrance, where the main attraction has just arrived, with an intensity she recognizes only too well.

 _The eyes of a killer._

She dabs her lips delicately with a damask napkin, and turns her most blazing smile on him.

"Bride's side, or groom's?" she asks in Sokovian.

"Groom," he replies unhesitatingly, in the same language but with an accent that sounds American. The man's bearing is loose but guarded, a bit like a cat ready to pounce, and he posture is straight. Military. _Special forces._

"Business associate."

Natasha refines her assessment. Jashari's enforcers are all local, so …Private security consultant, probably, or hired gun. Either way, he won't have a business card.

Her thoughts are interrupted when the bridal party arrives and heads towards the dais at the far end of the room. Her mark, not unlike the man beside her, wears his suit with a touch of unease – no wonder, for a man who prefers being photographed in camo jackets, foot on a dead animal or a human opponent. Dardan Jashari looks around the room with the air of a man used to approval, giving a manly thumbs up to various people - until his eyes arrest on Natasha.

Knowing her cue, she straightens her shoulders so as to push out her breasts, and flips her flaming red hair with an idle hand. Freshly married or not, Jashari watches her with a predatory grin, stopping just short of licking his lips. Getting close to him on the dance floor should be a breeze.

Jashari's young wife is a pretty slip of girl, dressed in a gown of ivory silk and dripping in pearls; a small, pearl-encrusted purse dangles from her wrist. Her ensemble could doubtless rebuild several city blocks in this impoverished country. An older man – her father? - hovers behind her, his hand on the small of her back as he pushes her forward to her seat. There is no mother in sight.

Jelena sits down dutifully between her father and her groom, like a trained doll, and for a moment Natasha can almost see the strings.

"Not too happy, is she," her tablemate mutters to himself in English. Natasha wonders for a moment how he can possibly see the bride's face from this far away. But then she notices the set in the girl's shoulders, the way she leans away from the groom - just to the point where she gets too close to her father, and flinches back.

"You understand English."

It's not a question, and she decides there is no point in denying that she'd heard and understood.

"I didn't know Dardanko had American associates," she says.

Her neighbor shrugs.

"Fingers in lots of pies," he says, leaving open whether he is referring to Jashari or himself. He holds out his hand. "Barton, Clint. Nice to meet you."

His calluses, when she takes his hand, feel even odder than they look, and not consistent with any firearm she knows. But his grip is both warm and firm - hands that could set a woman's body on fire, or crush a larynx and end a life.

Hands not unlike her own.

She is spared the need to reciprocate the introduction when four other guests – one couple and two more of the single males that form the majority of attendees – join their table. None bother to introduce themselves; names here are currency, and you hold on to your coin in the face of strangers. A white-gloved waiter puts plates of delicately arranged morsels in front of everyone, and for a while no one speaks.

Not your typical wedding, Natasha concludes, although not unlike many she as attended in the past. There's a palpable air of…. Mistrust? Dislike? You could cut the tension with the silver butter knife on her bread plate. The men's eyes are constantly wandering around the room, observing and taking each other's measure; verbal jousts are flung at Jashari in attempts to get his attention, bask in it when successful. Testosterone levels are running high, and many glances – and lewd remarks - are thrown her way.

She almost instinctively reaches for the stiletto in the folds of her dress, when she feels a hand touch her back. _Barton, resting his hand on the back of her chair._ There's an odd tingle to the touch, but no sense of danger. She relaxes – for now – and throws him an amused look.

"Pretending I'm yours?"

He shrugs, and gives her a knowing grin.

"Just throwing the jerks off your scent. Beginning to piss me off. Not that you'd need help, of course. You always carry a knife to a banquet?"

He doesn't miss much, does he.

"Absolutely. I heard chivalry wasn't dead yet."

He snorts, and for a moment their eyes lock. It's almost like a shock, or a recognition… But then the groom's best man loudly announces a drinking game, and the moment passes.

In a display of dazzling originality, every time the bride and groom kiss, the guests are supposed to down a glass of _raki_. There is much banging on tables with each sloppy kiss, and waiters stand by to pour more of the paint stripper liquid as soon as a round is done. The bride plays along, but Natasha doesn't miss the fact that she surreptitiously wipes her mouth on a napkin after each encounter.

By the time dessert is served, the noise level in the room has gone up several decibels, and a couple of loud arguments have broken out in more than one corner. It's only a question of time, Natasha calculates, before someone will swing a fist; currents of violence move through the air like tangible threads.

Barton has been leaving his raki untouched throughout, instead nursing a single glass of wine – one sip at a time, alternating with deep draughts of water, as he scans the crowd with eyes that miss nothing. Natasha revises her assessment yet again. Foreign intelligence, or hired gun. Here to watch or kill.

"Not a fan of raki?" she asks when he waves off yet another attempt from one of the waiters to top up his shot glass. Obviously, he's bent on staying sober.

"No more than you," he replies, pointing to her own glass. "Last war around here ran on that stuff, I'm told. Heard it fries people's brains, and I like mine fresh, soft and squishy."

He gives her a little smile that does interesting things to his face.

"You still haven't told me your name," he says.

"And maybe I won't. Keep the mystery alive."

She's not sure why, but she doesn't want to lie; the truth, on the other hand, is a matter of circumstance - and this is not the right one.

The band strikes up a song, and all eyes go to the dais where the groom grabs his bride by the hand and pulls her to the dance floor for the opening waltz, or whatever it is. He's drunk and swaying a little, but manages to stay on his feet and take a few turns around the room before others start to join in.

 _Now._

…..

III.

She's nothing like any woman he's ever met. If he's been laying off the booze here, it's not the impact of S.H.I.E.L.D. constantly preaching ' _No Drinking On The Job Except As Necessary To Maintain Cover';_ no, this is Clint Barton, aware he'll need all his wits about him to keep up with her and not get lost.

She's drop-dead gorgeous, her flaming red hair a beacon in the room. Her dress shows a pair of arms that are well-muscled and firm; her trigger fingers bear the marks of long-term, ambidextrous firearms practice.

Clint's gut never lies, and he's pretty much one hundred percent certain that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel was off by one chromosome., and that this is the rival 'asset' Coulson had mentioned. May and Hill are right – the ranks of their profession are filled with men prone to stupid assumptions. Redhead here is probably working those like a champ.

Not to mention the advantage presented by a dress like that - instant distraction, plus folds to conceal far more weapons than that idiotic monkey suit of his ever could. Who'd pat down a skirt, when there's boobs…

He can feel her twitch a little when the music starts. Getting ready for action? Or does she just feel like dancing? (Unlikely.) Speaking of tells, he has to stop his own hand from wandering towards the pocket where he keeps his darts.

The dance floor is filling up.

 _Now's as good a time as any._

"Care to dance?"

Coulson's _'keep an eye out'_ probably didn't mean Clint should go boogie with the competition, but she seems just as keen to get to the floor as he does, so what the hell. And if they're both after the same target - mafias being what they are, that's likely - a little collegiality might go a long way.

At the very least, he's pretty sure she's not after _him_. (At least not yet.)

Red gives him an ironic little smile, just this shade of a smirk, nods graciously and holds out her hand.

"You're not carrying a gun," she whispers in his ear as she places her hand on his shoulder; the chill that he feels has nothing to do with her words, and everything with the touch of her breath. "So what _do_ you have in that pocket of yours?"

Clint settles his hand on her narrow waist. Her muscles are firm, like a gymnast's or a kick boxer's; he can feel them move under his fingers as she sways to the music with the grace of a deer.

"Trade secret," he whispers back, his lips close to that glorious flame-red hair. He likes the smell of her shampoo. "Don't want to spoil the surprise."

He allows his fingertips to guide her as they dance, closer and closer to the front of the room where the bridal couple are still holding sway. It's surprisingly easy; there are not that many dancers; most are men who step back to ogle his partner as they pass. She, in turn, doesn't resist, and Clint has the distinct feeling that they're going exactly where she wants to be. So much for being the great lead.

"How do you know I'm not packing?" He can't resist; having passed the frisk test would be far too easy an answer, and they're colleagues, after all.

The music slows, and she uses the change in the beat to run her hand up his waistcoat, right under the flap of the ridiculous jacket where a holster would be if he had one. Her tongue grazes her lips, and for a moment, Clint finds himself getting distracted.

 _Professional, Barton. You're a professional._

"Suit," she says, looking down the length of his body with the tiniest of smiles. "Nice, sharp, tailored cut. A girl can always tell where the bulges are."

They've arrived in the center of the room, where the bride and groom are dancing beside her father and an elderly woman, who in turn smiles at Clint's partner.

"You didn't tell me you brought a young man, dear," she says with approval.

Assumptions, Clint considers, really are useful things. For a moment he wonders what would happen if he were to kiss the woman in his arms – would she play along, or end him on the spot?

He lets the thought, and the moment, pass.

Jashari is swaying now, half leaning on his new wife with one arm. His free hand is pawing Jelena's breasts, kneading and cupping them, fingers digging into the plunging neckline as if he means to rip off her dress right there on the floor.

She squirms out from under his arm, hissing something in Sokovian that Clint roughly translates as "Can't you wait, you vile pig?"

In response, Jashari hauls out and hits her across the face with the back of his hand, causing her to stumble and fall. Clint's partner, in turn, flinches and spits out a curse (in Russian?); he releases her immediately.

If ever there was a good time for Dardan Jashari to exit this world, it is now – and it seems like the mysterious redhead is even more keen to help him along than Clint.

Clint slides his fingers into the pocket with the tiny darts; he pulls one of them out of the foam that's holding the tips, careful to touch only the end. He assumes that his partner is getting ready to deploy her stiletto (or whatever), but for now his focus is on the scene before him, looking for an opening.

Novakoff is screaming at his daughter now – something about _family honour_ – while the older woman he'd been dancing squeals in protest. Jelena, for her part, shouts, in between sobs, that she is no one's property, and may her father choke on whatever price he's getting for selling her to that … (Clint's Sokovian isn't colloquial enough to understand that last bit fully, but it seems to have something to do with livestock and genitals.)

The crowd of dancers has parted, leaving the four main players isolated in the center, like it happens in the movies. Great sight lines; it's time. Clint pinches the dart between his thumb and forefinger and removes his hand from his pocket.

He watches Jashari bend down to yank Jelena back on her feet, exposing his neck; Clint is just about to snap his wrist to let fly, when there is a sudden loud _crack_. Jashari is flung back, away from the white figure at his feet. His face is a bloody mess, and he is dead before he hits the floor.

The bride, still on the ground but on her knees now, has one hand in her little purse, which has a smoking hole in one corner; the front of her dress is splattered with blood. She twists around, and points the purse at her father.

 _Crack._

The next few minutes are a blur. He has no idea how he and his dance partner got to be so much in synch - but they are, and it feels oddly right.

He whips a dart at one of Jashari's thugs, who has pulled a gun and is pointing it at Jelena, before pulling the girl off the floor. A sudden knife blooms from the chest of another man, and he follows the hissed, " _This way!_ " without question.

Judging by the sounds of fighting erupting around the room, the battle for Jashari's succession has begun, even as the pool of his blood under his head is still spreading.

Dragging Jelena behind him, Clint pulls two more darts out of his pocket with his other hand. The two guards at the door go down without him having to deploy them though – his fellow assassin has a highly effective chop, even as she is steering the old lady along.

 _So that's the way things are going to be?_ Coulson's gonna love it: "Sokovian economy saved by domestic dispute. Here, have some civilians."

The darts do come in handy, though, when they get to the parking lot; there are several thugs between them and Clint's SUV. Word about Jashari's death has spread quickly, and people seem inclined to shoot anyone in sight, just in case.

What a country.

His companion helps the old lady into the car – it's pretty obvious that she is as happy to be out of there as the shell-shocked bride, if only to hold the girl's hand and whisper things that Clint can't hear.

"You coming?" he asks his … colleague, partner, whatever she is. "I got evac ten miles from here. Could get you a ride, maybe a job."

The woman smiles, a little wistfully (or so he'd like to think).

"Can't, thanks. Although I have to admit, I'm curious what you threw at those guys you dropped."

She seems to want to say something else, looking at the two women in the back of the car, but refrains. Instead, she turns back to Clint, puts her hand around his neck and pulls his face down for a kiss that leaves him surprisingly breathless.

"Thanks for the dance," she says, raises her hand in farewell and melts into the night.

He doesn't follow her, not even with his eyes; there are thugs pouring out of the fortress now, gunfire blazing, and they really need to get the hell out of Dodge. Who knows who'll be in charge of the place, when the shooting is done?

As the SUV peels out of the parking lot, Clint hears the old lady in the back seat say pretty much what he is thinking:

"I never did learn that nice young woman's name."

…..

IV.

Maria Hill takes the file off the Director's desk. It is thick, marked _Level 7_ , and the words "Black Widow" are written on the spine with thick magic marker. A mix between old-fashioned and high-tech, is S.H.I.E.L.D., with the boss favouring the classics at the oddest times.

Like when it comes to files on foreign assassins.

"I assume you _did_ read Barton's report form the Sokovia mission last year, sir?"

"I have," Fury drawls.

 _The Sokovia mission._ A euphemism for 'clusterfuck'. Granted, the head of Sokovia's most influential mafia and its most corrupt politician were dead, together with a bunch of their minions, but S.H.I.E.L.D. had also ended up with two civilians in the witness protection program, a completely avoidable expense.

More to the point, though, their current target will know Barton on sight.

Maria ploughs on, as is her duty.

"And do you still think Barton is the right man to send after Romanoff? The Council…"

"….wants a success. I know. Pierce told me himself. _We can't have a KGB-trained assassin freelancing on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watch._ He told me that, too."

Fury puts his booted feet on the desk before continuing. In some cultures, Maria knows, showing the soles of your feet is considered a mortal insult. For Nick Fury, it's a sign that he considers himself at home, and quite comfortable.

"I'm pretty sure that Barton will know what to do."


End file.
